The game against Lake Ridge University was the kind that chewed fingernails to the bone.
Top of the ninth. Tied 7–7. Bases loaded. Two outs.
Mark squatted behind the plate, sweat dripping down his back despite the cool breeze rolling in from the east. His mitt itched with anticipation, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the stadium noise.
The pitch came in too high. The batter didn't swing, but the umpire called it a strike.
"Strike three!"
A chorus of groans erupted from the opposing bench, while Mark stood, shaking the sting out of his hand, catching a glimpse of Jared in the stands.
Even in a sling, Jared had his cap pulled low, cheering harder than anyone else.
It wasn't enough.
They'd lost the game 8–7.
But when the team trudged into the locker room after the final inning, there was no shouting. No blame. No tension boiling beneath the surface. Instead, there was the quiet thrum of effort spent, of boys who had fought hard, together, and nearly pulled it off.
Mark sat on the bench, unstrapping his gear. Sweat clung to every inch of him, muscles sore, knuckles bruised from a foul tip two innings ago.
Coach Mendez clapped him on the back. "Hell of a game, Reyes."
"Still lost," Mark muttered.
"Yeah," Coach said. "But I haven't seen the team play like that all season. You keep this up, we'll make something out of the last few weeks."
Mark just nodded, jaw tight. He wasn't satisfied with "almost." Not anymore.
He was the first one on the field the next morning. The sky was still bruised with streaks of dawn, mist curling off the grass. He ran laps until his lungs burned, then hit the weight room and added extra plates to the barbell. One rep. Two. Three. No spotter. Just him and the pain.
By the time the rest of the team arrived, Mark was already drenched in sweat, taking grounders at third with Devon and launching them to first base like he was shot from a cannon.
Travis jogged up to him mid-practice. "You trying to kill yourself, man?"
Mark shook out his arm. "Just trying to get better."
"You're already better," Travis said. "Everyone sees it."
Mark just shrugged.
What he didn't say was that he felt responsible. That he wanted to prove he wasn't just the catcher involved in drama. That he wasn't a burden, a liability, a distraction. He wanted to earn back the respect he feared he'd lost—and Jared's too.
Across the diamond, he caught a glimpse of Jared sitting on the bleachers, sling over his shoulder, hoodie zipped up despite the warming sun. He was alone, as usual, but his eyes never left Mark.
Every time Mark dove for a wild pitch or stayed late hitting line drives into the cage, Jared was there. And Mark noticed.
After the third week of pushing himself to the brink, Coach Mendez pulled him aside.
"You're setting the tone," the coach said. "Keep it up, and we just might make something of this season."
"Trying my best," Mark replied.
"You're leading like a captain," Coach added. "Maybe you're not the ace, but leadership isn't always about throwing the fastest pitch."
Mark blinked at him. "You serious?"
Coach nodded. "More than ever."
That night, Mark didn't go to the gym after lights out. Instead, he found himself walking toward the dorm courtyard where Jared usually sat with his earbuds in, music low, gazing at the stars like they might answer something for him.
"Hey," Mark said, sliding onto the bench beside him.
Jared looked up, smile crooked. "Hey yourself. You looked good out there today."
"I'm dead tired."
"Could tell," Jared chuckled. "Your form's slipping a little."
"Oh, shut up."
They sat in easy silence for a moment before Mark added, "You been watching every practice?"
Jared shrugged. "Somebody's gotta make sure you don't break your neck trying to impress everyone."
Mark turned to him, more serious. "It's not everyone. It's the team… and maybe a little for you."
Jared's brows pulled together, softening his expression. "You don't have to prove anything to me, Mark."
"I know. But I want to," Mark said. "I want to be the kind of teammate—hell, the kind of person—you'd be proud to be around."
"I already am," Jared said. "Even when I was too much of a coward to say it."
Mark looked down at the grass, voice low. "Do you think we'll be okay? The team, I mean."
"Yeah," Jared said, his tone gentle. "They're finally acting like a team. And you… you're leading the charge."
Mark let that sit between them, warm and steady.
"Still sucks watching from the bench," Jared admitted, glancing at his arm. "Not sure how I'll be when the sling comes off."
"You'll be back in shape by playoffs," Mark said. "And until then… I got you."
Jared smiled, slow and grateful. "Thanks."
Mark hesitated. "Would you maybe… want to hang out tomorrow? Just us?"
"Yeah," Jared said without pause. "I'd like that."
They sat there for a while longer, two boys under a blanket of stars, not quite where they started, but not so far from something better.
------
The pier stretched out into the bay, bathed in the soft glow of string lights. The distant hum of laughter and crashing waves mixed with the clinking of quarters dropping into arcade machines. Mark leaned against the railing, licking mustard off his fingers from a half-eaten corn dog, while Jared polished off his second one like he hadn't eaten in days.
"I forgot how good these were," Jared said between bites.
Mark chuckled. "I still don't know how you eat two of those things and not immediately regret it."
"I have no shame," Jared said proudly. "Besides, they taste like childhood."
They wandered down the boardwalk, occasionally stopping to watch kids try their luck at the claw machine or couples take selfies with the ocean in the background. When they hit the arcade, Jared lit up like a little kid.
"Mark," he said, turning to him with mock seriousness, "I hope you're ready to lose your dignity. Air hockey. Now."
"You're on."
They squared off at the table, dollar bill exchanged for quarters, and the game began. Jared had a smirk the entire time, slapping the puck with unholy accuracy. But Mark wasn't a pushover—he grinned right back and played hard.
"Six-five," Jared muttered, sweating. "Match point."
Mark leaned forward, focused. "You're going down."
The puck slid across the table like lightning—Jared missed.
"YES!" Mark fist-pumped, grinning.
"Rematch!" Jared demanded.
They ended up staying until the arcade started dimming lights, signaling closing time. On the walk back to campus, they didn't talk much. The night air was cool, the world quiet around them, and the tension that had once buzzed between them was gone. Replaced by comfort. Familiarity. Maybe even something new.
Outside Mark's dorm, they paused.
"Thanks for today," Jared said, shoving his hands into his jacket pocket. "I didn't realize how much I needed to just… feel normal."
"Me too," Mark replied.
There was a beat where neither of them moved. Then Jared smiled, soft and real.
"Go get some sleep, slugger. We've got a game to win tomorrow."
---
Game day.
The sky was cloudless and blue, but the pressure hung thick in the air like a storm waiting to break.
If they lost this one, playoff dreams were done. The whole team knew it.
Mark pulled on his gear in silence. Jared, still in a sling, sat on the bench during warmups, yelling encouragement at anyone who would listen.
"Focus on your release, Devon!"
"Reyes! Stop babying those throws! You throw like my grandmother!"
Mark rolled his eyes, smiling despite the nerves.
By the fifth inning, it was clear this game would be a war of attrition. The scoreboard blinked: 2–2.
Both teams fought for every base, every inch. Mark's knees ached from squatting, and the sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows across the diamond.
Then, top of the ninth. Two outs. A wild pitch zipped past Mark's glove and ricocheted off the backstop. The runner on third broke for home.
Mark dove for the ball, flipped his mask off, and lunged toward the plate—but it was too late. The runner slid under his glove.
3–2.
The opposing bench erupted in cheers. The home crowd groaned.
Bottom of the ninth. Pressure so thick, Mark could barely breathe.
One out. Runners on first and second.
He stepped into the batter's box, heart pounding.
From the dugout, Jared stood and cupped his good hand around his mouth.
"Let's go, Reyes! You got this!"
Mark didn't look back, but he heard it. Felt it. Jared believed in him.
Count went to full: 3–2.
The pitcher wound up. Mark watched the seams rotate—curveball. He swung.
CRACK.
The ball screamed down the right field line.
Both runners took off. The crowd jumped to their feet. Mark sprinted, heart slamming against his ribs, lungs burning.
One run scored.
Two runs scored.
The crowd exploded.
Final score: 4–3.
They'd won.
The team mobbed Mark between second and third, jumping on him, shouting, pounding him on the helmet. Jared, grinning from ear to ear, pushed through the crowd and grabbed Mark in a one-armed hug, careful of his sling.
"That was badass," Jared said, breathless.
"I thought I was gonna puke," Mark replied.
"Still badass."
As the team celebrated around them, Mark looked at Jared and saw something different in his eyes. Not just admiration. Not just pride.
Maybe hope.